Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Due to many requests, I have set up a new blog site just for my poetry and other thoughts and ramblings titled Here For A Season. You can follow the link above or type www.hereforaseason.blogspot.com
As a sampling, and in keeping with the season here is a poem from a few years back. I'll be updating the site every week or two. As always, please feel free to comment.
Peace,
BJ

Thursday, January 24, 2013

It was Sunday night, the kind of
night when windows were left open to a breeze that never came; a night before
air conditioning, before locked doors, before fear, before apathy.

Lights were turned off.

Shades were pulled up.

Sheets were turned down.

It was a hot Sunday night in July.
It was bed time but no one slept.

Outside, streetlights called to
mosquitoes.

Inside, mothers called to children;
lovers called to each other.

The small suburban community was
close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care
of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single
fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses,
it only seemed natural.

Each house was the same; each house
different.

Each occupant was an individual,
each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.

It was 10:45 on a hot Sunday night
in July. It was bed time but no one slept. The summer silence was shattered by
a car careening down North Street at top speed.

Rubber squealed on pavement.

Metal twisted against metal.

Glass exploded in the air.

Exhaust hammered.

It was a Sunday night in July. The
residence of North Street lay sleepless and frozen in their beds by the sounds they
heard coming from outside.

“Was that a car?”

“It sounded like trash cans.”

“Did it come from up the street?”

By the time reality seized the
startled neighbors the car’s muffled exhaust had paused briefly then faded into
the hot summer night. The momentary silence was broken by the sound of doors
opening and closing up and down the street.

Mother’s were in robes.

Father’s were in pajama bottoms.

Children with runny noses pointed.

Each looked at one another,
questioning, asking, puzzling.

“Two cars had been drag racing.”

“The police were chasing someone.”

It was the Kelly’s blue Chevrolet
that witnessed the truth. Once shiny and stately, now crumbed and humbled,
smashed against a telephone pole.

A spark ignited.

A flame caught hold.

A car blazed in the hot July night.

Bob Thompson ran to call the fire
department. Mr. Parker held his wife. Everyone listened to Mrs. Johnson exclaiming
it was all so terrible; everyone but the Kelly’s.

A shadowy figure appeared.

A man was running.

Mr. Martin carried a fire
extinguisher.

In seconds the white chemical had
choked out the red-yellow flames. A final gray cloud billowed into the black
summer sky.

“How could such a thing happen?”

“Did anyone see anything?”

“Where are the Kelly’s?”

At that moment, Mr. Martin was
pounding on the front door of the Kelly home. Lights hop scotched through the
darkened house, ending at the front porch as the door opened. Mr. Martin put
his arm around Mr. Kelly.

“It was an unidentified car.”

“It had raced down High Street.”

“It failed to make the turn.”

Mrs. Martin comforted Mrs. Kelly.

It was 11:05 on a hot Sunday summer
night in July. No one slept. A police car rolled up silently to the scene of
the accident. They had been in the neighborhood on a call.

It was one block over.

It had been a hit and run.

A young girl was walking with her
mother.

Twelve year old Carrie Walker was
dead. Everyone knew her. Her father had sold most of them their houses. Her
mother was head of the PTA.

It was a hot night in July. But
there was a strange chill. The small crowd shuffled about.

They felt the Walker’s loss.

They understood the Kelly’s anger.

Someone should be with the Walkers.

Mr. Martin offered his towing
service.

It was silent and still. The police
radio split the heavy night air. Twenty heads strained to hear. The accidents
were related. An eye witness had seen a car traveling at high speed, its right
front fender crumpled.

The car was a convertible.

It was dark green.

The license plate number was
familiar.

The words struck like a hammer blow.
The same thought was on everyone’s mind. Neighbors looked at one another
questioning, asking, puzzled; in disbelief.

“Young John Martin has a
convertible.”

“Didn’t he just paint it dark green?”

“There’s dark green paint on Kelly’s
car.”

Mike and Louise Martin shrank from
the crowd and slipped back to their house. Tom Kelly looked at his wife. Alice
Johnson mumbled something about teenagers. Bob Thompson gathered up his
children. Bill Hanks sighed, and Sam Parker took his wife’s hand in his.

No one spoke.

No one looked at the Kelly’s.

No one looked at each other.

The small suburban community was
close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care
of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single
fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses,
it only seemed natural.

Each house was the same; each house
different.

Each occupant was an individual, each
individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.

It was a Sunday night, the kind of
night when doors were closed, locks were turned; windows shut and shades drawn.

Outside, streetlights called to
mosquitoes.

Inside, mothers called to children;
lovers called to each other.

It was 11:15 on a hot summer night
in July. It was bed time but no one slept.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

When I was young everything was a
friendly green. 1965 things started to take on a mysteriously intriguing
purplish gold hue. By 1971 the world was opaque. As I passed through my
twenties and into my thirties, the yellow of promise shone brightly. A dizzying
blast of red hot love came and went in the twinkling of a soft blue eye.
Turning forty five, smoky gray complacency tinted my life. For a time life became
a pointless beige. Today the past is a brilliant unforgiving crystal clear; the
future a hazy tawny sunset.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Does the Coyote live or survive?
Would his life be better without the Roadrunner, or would his life be
meaningless? Does he need the Roadrunner or does the Roadrunner need the
Coyote?

Why does the Coyote keep climbing
back up from the abyss when he knows his fate is to fall again? Or does he
know? Is the Coyote a slave to his desires, wants, needs; or merely a product
of his own existence?

Without the Roadrunner would the
Coyote continue to live… or exist… or survive? Could the Roadrunner exist
without the Coyote? Would the Coyote be the Coyote without the Roadrunner?

Should the Coyote, knowing that he
is to never catch the Roadrunner, continue to try; or should he redirect his
efforts? And if the Coyote were to redirect his efforts would he still be the
Coyote… or something less… or something different?

Do the ends justify the means? Is
the reality as good as the fantasy? Is it the present or the wrappings that
hold the attraction? Is it the reward or the competition that keeps the Coyote
going?

If the Coyote catches the
Roadrunner, what then? Is there another Roadrunner somewhere for the Coyote to
pursue… perhaps bigger… even more elusive?

When does it end… or does it?

Does the Coyote cease to exist if he
stops chasing the Roadrunner? Does the Coyote cease to live once he has caught
the Roadrunner? Is the Roadrunner meant to be caught?

Does the Roadrunner actually exist…
or does he just live in the mind of the Coyote?

Does the Coyote actually exist? Or
does he just live in the minds of those who believe in… or need… the chase in
order to live… or exist… or survive?

If the Coyote and Roadrunner didn’t
exist would there be a need to invent them?

I think so.

Houston,
Texas

June,
1992

Thanks
to Charles M Jones for endless hours of laughter and sleepless nights of
contemplation.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

This story is now available for a free read on Short Story Me. Just click on the link below. And also be sure to check out my other stories on Short Story Me under Crime, Horror and Fantasy.BJThe Visit by BJ Neblett on Short Story Me